"Goners"

They tended to find each other in lonely places: bus stations, airports at night, twenty-four hour cafes that served cup after cup of coffee. They would find each other and swap stories. The stories were always different, but always the same. They were stories of longing and loss and, of course, the search. The never ending search.

The one they lost might have been a husband or a wife, a son or daughter, or even just a good friend that disappeared. "They were there one day and then they were gone." That's how it went. That's how it always went.

They would go to the police and the police would find nothing. There would be nothing to find. No trace, no trail. Only empty spaces and apologies. They would cry and grieve.

And then the dream would come to them. The dream of their son or daughter, of their husband or wife, of their good friend, their face a portrait of sadness, of grief. And in the dream, they would say two words, just two words: "Find me."

And so they went off on their search. Bus tickets, plain trips, cars driven down lonely freeways. Their search would bring them to a hundred, a thousand different places, but they would never find the one they were looking for. So the search became never ending. They sold their houses; their new home was the space between here and there. Between now and forever.

After they swap stories in the lonely places, they would exchange pictures of their loved one, their lost one, imploring the other if they had seen them (nearly always getting a negative reply). After that, they would get up and go to the next place, on a plane or bus or simply on their own tired feet.

"Blood-Marked Morning"

The cuts were long but not wide, sitting on the torso. He stared at them and prodded one, wincing at the sensation.

The room was decorated with the skulls of dogs and bowls of rosewater. He poured one into his wounds, and they came back to life.

He hissed in pain and the world went white for a moment.

He was sitting in that whiteness for a small eternity, staring at the whiteness until spots formed before his eyes and those spots resolved into teeth, a snout, sneering eyes.

Then he was back, standing in his room. His wounds were bleeding again, not just the recent ones but their hundred predecessors. The wood of his floor was going to break eventually, turning deeper and deeper red each day.

He feels like he's going to run out of blood eventually, but he knows that isn't going to happen. This is his punishment.

He laid on the floor, taking solace in the ivory scowls which surrounded him and waiting for it all to pass.

"Mission Statement"

We know he's coming by the sound of his cane rapping on the floor and the wheezing of his breath. We can hear his instructions whispered by the millions of microscopic mouths floating unseen throughout us.

He resonates with us and because of this we follow him. No coercion, dehumanization, death. We are those who have transcended the outdated notions of Hippocrates. We are those who seize knowledge more vigorously than any other and don't release it until it's been crushed and its blood spilt.

Those of you running to your religions have your own problems to face. You would be surprised to know how many masks and screams are hidden within your day to day lives. We're all the same, and we all take the same bait. If you think long enough, you may even come around to our line of reasoning.

Not that you'll have much time to.

"Return to Me"

Come back to me, my sweet.

You struggle with the locks, trying to work your way out of the room you worked so hard to keep yourself in.

You told your friends to help, to barricade you in. You couldn't check, but we can both see now that they didn't take you seriously.

I'm not going to hurt you. I never was. It's no more me talking than it is you walking out your front door.

I'm nearby. You and I can sense each other in the night, because we need to.

I'm sorry I scared you when we first met, and I'm so glad that I knew how to get you back. We can be together forever now, and all it cost was my soul.

Follow me. Our mistress is calling.

"Dirty Rainwater And A Cheap Cigar"

Today Edmund laid in dirty rainwater in an overpass tunnel and smoked a cheap cigar. It was the most relaxed he had been in weeks.

It just became clear to him that there was no real fighting what was going to happen to him. The rain water went through the cell openings on his exposed back, filling every gap rather quickly. The water continued then throughout his body, slowly replacing his blood.

This was happening, it wasn't going to be painful and as death's go it was kind of the best he could have asked for.

With his last bit of consciousness intact he took a big puff of the cigar.

"Farewell world, hope we see each other soon."

"Initiation"

Walk with me down the streets of blood
Don't falter, my dear, or stumble
The straight and narrow is for the weak
The twisted and black for the humble.

The tolls will come, and pay we shall
Pluck out our tongues and our eyes
What good will such things do for us
In a world without crying and lies?

I see you slow and spy the end
Glass eyes make no mistake
The choice to walk this path, my dear
Was never yours to make.

"Small Dreams"

Humans sleep. Some mammals hibernate. Insects rest. Fish enter trances. Microorganisms have periods of stasis.

In some sense, everything sleeps. And everything dreams.

Imagine the nightmares of being chased by predators, and the unseen things in the night. Imagine entire worlds made of bloodshed, wet raw meat and stinking carcasses.

Imagine what strange basic concepts a nucleus must generate, painting with long strokes the fears and hatreds which will last for aeons  What would such a creature think -- if it could -- were it told its actions would lead to the birth of gods?

These dreams are out there, circling chaotically in a mass of screaming evil at the center of thought and feeling. One god that didn't need to be born, but opened the door for the rest.

Sleep lightly; your dreams have forsaken you since the dawn of time.